


I'm An Angel of The Lord

by EndlessNepenthe



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Wings, Fluff, Gabriel (Supernatural) is a Little Shit, M/M, Protective Dean Winchester, Team Free Will having fun because they deserve it, Wingfic, very very soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2020-02-04 17:34:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18609265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EndlessNepenthe/pseuds/EndlessNepenthe
Summary: Dean hears the sound of a large displacement of water. Like something huge was climbing out of the lake behind the cabin.Or, Dean sees Castiel's wings for the first time. Dean's mind runs wild, just a little.





	I'm An Angel of The Lord

**Author's Note:**

> This wasn't supposed to happen lol but here we are (the power of Cas and Dean!)
> 
> I haven't watched Supernatural, so please excuse any inconsistencies :)

_Sam is tugged up from the empty depths of unconsciousness by the sound of his brother’s voice._

_Teetering between a whimper and a plea but not exactly either of the two, Dean’s slurred mutters and sharp gasps are knives that tear at the veil of dense silence in the room._

_Limbs heavy with sleep, Sam frees the hand closest to Dean, sluggishly sliding it out from under his pillow. Before Sam could stretch his hand out to blindly grab for the one that Dean had hanging over the edge of his own mattress and into the gap between the two beds, there is a gentle rustle of feathered wings, heralding the arrival of an angel._

_Pleasantly warm and relaxed, Sam doesn’t startle and jerk himself awake like he usually would. Instead, he allows himself to trust the telltale presence of holy strength and grace, drifting back towards sleep. He knows Dean is going to be fine._

_There is a beat of silence; even with his own eyes closed, Sam can practically see the way bright blue eyes silently roam around the room, vigilantly hunting for any possible threats before focusing on Dean. The soft swish of moving fabric — Sam knows it’s the long, tan trench coat — fills the air, followed by the sound of someone meticulously sinking down onto the mattress of Dean’s bed._

_Sam hears Dean shift, recognizing the low involuntary sound his brother exhales whenever he forces himself awake enough to pry his eyes open to narrow green slits._

_“Cas?” Dean mumbles, voice hoarse and rough as gravel._

_“I’m here, Dean.”_

_Dean sighs, the sound nearly imperceptible and ringing with an unmistakable note of relief. As Dean’s breathing calms and evens out, Sam can feel the air in the room stir with the fondness Castiel was emitting like a nearly tangible heat._

_Sam falls asleep to a voice that is a deep soothing rumble, curling warmly around delicately murmured foreign syllables, each word flowing smoothly to the next like simmering liquid chocolate being poured from a hot pot._

 

Dean wakes — slowly, gradually — of his own accord. It was a strange feeling, being provided the permission to determine whether or not he wanted to willingly leave the comfort of his bed; Dean hadn’t been granted such a liberty in a long time. Years. He’d been taller than his now giant brother, and even then, it was rare for Dean not to be rudely shaken awake by his father. Clinging to the drowsiness that left his body loose and pliant, Dean lazily nuzzles his pillow, slowly flexing his fingers before curling them around the familiar cold grip of his Colt. Appeased by the knowledge of having his beloved gun at his side, Dean slides his arm out from under the pillow, turning to flop onto his back and blink sluggishly at the wooden planks of the ceiling.

_Should probably get up, Sammy’s going to complain._

Rolling his head to the side, fully expecting to see a long empty bed, Dean is astonished to see his brother curled up clutching his pillow, silhouetted by the weak sunlight filtering in through the thin curtains covering the windows behind Sam. No matter how often Dean had complained, Sam had always been an early riser, which lead him to be the self appointed coffee and breakfast runner. Dean never failed to make the half hearted token protest — _Stop wakin’ up at the ass crack of dawn, Sammy, you barely sleep_ — each morning, but even he couldn’t deny that waking up to fresh coffee and hot food was a luxury he never wanted to have end.

He wonders just how many times his brother woke up after a meager handful of restless hours, dragged his exhausted body out of bed instead of rolling over, brushed his teeth and washed his face as quickly and quietly as he could, all just for rushing to the nearest cafe to grab food and coffee for Dean to wake up to. He would never tell Sam, but sometimes Dean would be waking up as Sam is returning, just conscious enough to register his little brother’s hurried steps up the stairs or down the hall to their shared room, slowing down to a casual stroll once Sam reached the front door — like Sam didn’t want Dean to wake up to an empty room panicking about where Sam might have gone, but not wanting Dean to know that he was practically running back each morning.

Those days, the guilt grows and coils like a venomous snake around his heart, just barely kept at bay by the overwhelming warmth — _love —_ he felt for his adorably earnest kid brother, and he would dutifully play the grumbly half asleep and annoyed Dean when Sam wakes him up, like clockwork, to have breakfast. And it hurts, because tired just-waking-up Dean is a total _douchebag,_ full of carelessly pointed barbs and sarcastic snark, but _Sam._ Sam takes it all in stride, every time, a smirk curling his lips and eyes glittering with challenge, blithely replying with his own sardonic comments, effortlessly taking the sting out the biting words they exchange and reducing them to playful brotherly banter.

Although it was strange because Sam _never_ slept so late, especially not later than his brother, Dean wrestles aside his worry and doesn’t wake Sam. He does, however, spend an extra minute in bed, listening to Sam’s deep and rhythmic breaths, reassuring himself that _Sam is fine, he’s probably tired, so he’s just sleeping some more._ When Dean shuffles to the tiny connected bathroom, he carefully shuts the door, moving as soundlessly as he could through his morning routine. The simple sound of water splashing from the tap had never seemed so _loud_ before.

Dean tugs off the t shirt he had slept in with one fluid movement, tossing it into the shared laundry basket. He pads silently, bare foot, out of the bedroom and into the modest living room, dressing quickly in the fresh clothes he’d grabbed. Dean allows his mind to wander, contemplating about breakfast, as his body goes through the motions engrained so deeply in him that he could probably do it in his sleep: shrugging on his jacket, instinctively checking for the lock pick and switchblade tucked away in concealed pockets; automatically confirming that his Colt is fully loaded with the safety on before sliding it in the waistband of his tight jeans, the cold metal warming with his body heat, a reassuring solid weight pressing against his hip whenever he moved; nimbly twirling the intricately carved demon blade with an effortless flourish before it is hidden inside his jacket. Shoving his cell phone into a pocket, Dean steps out of the cosy cabin, the late morning summer sunshine caressing his face as he sits down on the front steps and laces up his boots.

Just as he is about to pray for a particular angel to look after Sam while Dean goes out to pick up breakfast, Dean hears the sound of a large displacement of water. Like something huge was climbing out of the lake behind the cabin.

Leaping down three steps and landing lightly on his toes, bending his knees to absorb the impact, Dean jogs around the cabin.

_Keep Sammy safe._

His gun is in his hand in a flash, practiced fingers flicking the safety off and locking expertly around the worn grip. Squinting irritably against the bright sunlight, Dean stalks into the small forest that surrounded the large lake, heart hammering nervously in anticipation with the oppressive silence. After nearly shooting three panicked squirrels, Dean feels like he’s being stretched so thin that he’d snap any second, just barely biting down on his startled yelp when he steps on a dry tree branch that snaps with a sound like a gunshot. He allows himself to breathe a muted sigh of relief when he finally leaves the trees behind, extending the gun straight out in front of him as he examines the dry soil edge that jutted out over the water like a tiny cliff.

The area is as innocently empty as it could be, sunshine glinting prettily off the still water.

 _Like a damn postcard,_ Dean can’t help but scoff in his mind, nerves coiled tight and alert.

He’s begrudgingly relaxing, gun lowering at his side, when he sees it.

Promptly forgetting about the possible risk of a _giant threatening lake monster,_ Dean sprints across the clumpy parched grey soil at the edge of the water, thick boot heels thudding loudly on the wooden planks of the dock that stretched into the lake. The gun dangles from Dean’s right hand, forgotten, his left reaching out to pat gingerly at the signature tan trench coat that sat neatly folded at the end of the dock _like a suicide note._ The smooth material was hot, like it had been baking under the relentless sun for hours.

Kneeling on one knee by the coat, Dean calls out across the calm lake, voice loud with desperate denial. “Cas?!”

A pause. Then, the water stirs, something rising out of the deep center of the lake.

With a gasp, Dean leaps to his feet, pointing his Colt at the lake with a determined glare. _Did that thing eat Cas?_ A large shape with a rounded point pokes out of the water like a miniature mountain, made of semi opaque thin shadow that is a shifting mirage in the sunshine, flaring out into smaller individual shapes that looked suspiciously like… _feathers._ Frowning, Dean narrows his eyes, but before he could get a good look, the lake is parting to reveal a dark head and broad shoulders. _That “thing”_ is _Cas...?_ Even with the distance, Dean swore he could see eyes the colour of the deep ocean meeting his own. He blinks, and suddenly the water is empty.

Hurriedly shoving his gun down to point harmlessly at the ground, Dean pivots around with ease just as the sound of angel wings fluttering behind him reaches his ears. That move brings Dean nose to nose with Castiel, their breaths mingling in the miniscule space between them.

An extremely, undeniably, profoundly _wet_ Castiel.

Shaking his head to jostle free a few droplets of water with a little wrinkle of his nose, Castiel pushes a hand through his hair, smoothing back the dark wet strands. “Dean,” Castiel greets, tone perfectly even and unbothered.

Dean is only dimly aware of his mouth hanging open as his eyes travel down the tantalizingly glistening line of Castiel’s throat, tracing over the swell of lithe muscles underneath the near transparent white dress shirt plastered to the angel’s torso. Tongue darting out to wet his lips, Dean shuts his now dry mouth, flicking his gaze back up to patient and somewhat puzzled blue eyes. “...Cas,” Dean quietly says, struggling to maintain cool and collected as his mind screams about the proximity that allowed him to feel the heat radiating off Castiel’s body. “Wh— What were you doing at the bottom of the lake?”

“I was observing the ecosystem,” Castiel explains, eyes glittering with fascinated wonder, his delight lilting his deadpan words and shaping them into something that leaned more towards childlike human than impassive angel. “Fish lead fascinating lives, Dean. Their gills… So efficient. Their tails, so powerful. And… Witnessing the way sunlight delves into deep water; a valuable experience. Very beautiful. This world… Never ceases to amaze me.”

Dean could only blink in reply, stunned into silence in the face of such blatant appreciation, such innocent admiration, for a world Dean often found himself cursing. He manages a strained half smile when Castiel regards him with an expectant gaze.

“I could show you,” Castiel softly offers, open and imploring.

“...You—”

“Dean!” Sam’s cautious shout carries through the forest, followed by the sound of something large pushing through the undergrowth.

“Over here,” Dean yells back, flipping the safety back on his gun.

Castiel takes a step back from Dean, putting a reasonable distance between them, Dean finally noticing that Castiel was barefoot.

Sam bursts from the trees, his own gun pointed threateningly at the lake and hair disheveled. He relaxes when he spots Dean and Castiel, putting the weapon away and jogging over.

Dean clears his throat, muttering a low _It’s so damn hot_ as he sheds his jacket, dropping it onto the dock beside Castiel’s trench coat, his gun following after.

Setting his own gun down next to Dean’s, Sam glances at the lake before leveling a sly smirk at his brother.

 _Oh no he wouldn't._ “Don’t you dare,” Dean growls with a glare.

Sam’s resulting grin is wide with glee as he rushes at Dean. Castiel takes a nonchalant step back, a calm observer, as the two brothers wrestle with each other at the end of the dock.

After slithering out of Sam's arms, Dean takes advantage of his brother's forward momentum to shove him backward. Sam wobbles, his center of gravity disrupted, and Dean is inwardly celebrating, until he feels Sam latch onto his wrist. Dean doesn't even have the time to curse before they are both hurtling off the dock. Sam barks a laugh, the sound loud and unrestrained, and Dean does _not_ shriek as they hit the water.

The cold water instantly soaks through Dean’s clothes, his layers becoming heavy and waterlogged, clinging to his skin. He kicks back up to the surface with a startled gasp, spitefully spitting a mouthful of lake water in Sam’s face. Scowling, Sam retaliates by shaking his hair at Dean, spraying him with droplets. Dean treads water with strong lazy strokes, watching as Sam disappears underwater with a cloud of bubbles, surfacing moments later to throw his wet shirt up on the dock. It lands a few steps away from Castiel with a wet splatter.

“C’mon, Cas,” Sam urges with a taunting smirk.

Expression remaining infuriatingly blank, Castiel slowly unbuttons his dress shirt. Dean nearly forgets how to keep himself afloat when Castiel pins him with burning blue eyes as he peels the wet fabric off his shoulders, movements deliberately slow and unhurried. Sam whistles obnoxiously; both Castiel and Dean ignore him. Castiel drops the shirt at his feet, rolling his shoulders back, not the least bit self conscious under Dean’s wandering gaze.

Eyes crinkling with something mischievous, Castiel executes a flawless dive into the water, bobbing to the surface between Sam and Dean. Dean sees something ripple between Castiel’s bare shoulder blades when the angel swipes a hand through the water, huge wavering disturbances in the space of reality that his eyes and brain couldn’t understand. It was like Dean was trying to see Castiel through some sort of shifting haze.

A wave of water, impossibly large for the shallow sweep of Castiel’s hand, bears down on Sam, who yelps and raises his arms in front of his face. The disruption in reality that practically gave off otherworldly energy curves back, sending ripples through the lake towards Dean, seeming to fold at Castiel’s back before it’s gone like Dean had imagined it all along. He frowns at the free view he had of Castiel’s back, blinking at the immaculate tanned skin Dean could see, clear as crystal.

_What the hell was that?_

Preoccupied with his thoughts, Dean doesn’t notice the splash of water until after it has hit him square in the face. Spluttering and pawing at his eyes, Dean turns a furious glare on Sam, who winces.

“Sorry! Wasn’t aiming for you!”

Whirling, Dean catches sight of a fading Castiel, cutting through the water like a knife through butter.

_Of course he swims like he’s in the damn Olympics._

Dean turns back with a mission. Sam is already backing away from Dean, hands raised, eyes wide and pleading. Advancing through the water with purposeful vengeance, Dean waits until they are stumbling through the shallows before pouncing and wrestling his giggling brother down to the ground. The brothers play fight for the first time in _ever,_ batting at each other with open palms, smacking at heads and chests with no real force beyond rougher shoves, cheerfully flaunting elaborate rolls and movement restraining holds. One would pat at the other in reluctant defeat when escape without injury is not likely; they would be readily released, and then the two would face off again.

Light, breathless laughter echoes across the gleaming lake against a backdrop of splashing water, the sun appearing to shine brighter and stronger in the sky with the laughter of the Winchester brothers.

Sam and Dean scuffle until neither can breathe without gasping and panting, falling onto their backs to rest with an arm thrown out onto the other’s heaving chest, wide blissful smiles painted across their faces as the water laps at their legs.

“Ugh,” Dean wheezes, sitting up to shuck off his plaid button down and black t shirt.

“Ugh,” Sam agrees, struggling with his shoes and wet socks.

Dean makes a pointed effort _not_ to think about Castiel basically stripteasing him earlier with a single shirt, as his own clothes and shoes are flung carelessly onto the dock with Sam’s. They climb up beside their soaked clothes, dangling their feet into the lake. Sam kicks restlessly at the water with all the eagerness of an excited puppy, sending tiny waves up against Dean’s legs.

Leaving Sam to his fruitless mission of making Dean’s jeans more wet than they already were, Dean soaks in the warmth that chases away the chill left behind from soaking in the cold lake water. He peers at Castiel in the distance, floating serenely on his back in the center of the lake.

As Dean watches, something — _someone_ — appears above Castiel, flopping against the angel and sending him down into the lake. Reflexively, Dean grabs for his Colt; the gun is out of his reach, but he doesn't want to take his eyes off the lake. The seasoned hunter part of his mind analyzes the situation with swift efficiency.

_Too far. Shooting would be a waste of bullets._

So Dean keeps his eyes trained on the far center of the lake with his heart in his throat, the deep water churning and roiling. After a nerve wracking minute, Castiel rockets out of the water. Hovering in the sky, the sun outlining barely perceptible edges of huge wings, Castiel cradles a limp shoulder, the electric flash of grace bright even from where Dean was sitting.

“Gabriel,” Castiel rumbles, and in that instant, Dean is reminded that this awkward, bumbling man with the ocean trapped in his eyes is a soldier, an angel of war.

Sam inhales a jagged gasp.

“It’s been too long,” Gabriel returns, joining Castiel in the air, gingerly touching his own own wrist and exhaling a _Whew_ as his grace runs under his skin and sets the bones back where they belong.

“Why are you here,” Castiel snaps.

“It's nice to see you too,” Gabriel drawls. He turns toward the dock, and Dean swears he sees the Trickster smirk at Sam.

Reality shifts, the once opaque blur between Gabriel's shoulder blades gradually bleeding into the deepest gold, gleaming feathers tearing their way into existence from the base of Gabriel's wings. With a dramatic flourish, the Trickster spreads his wings wide across the sky, each feather shining like they'd been dipped in molten gold. He buffets Castiel with a light flap of his wings, clearly taunting the other angel, tucking his wings around himself to twirl gracefully in the air.

Castiel responds by repeating the move with pinpoint precision, solid inky shadows of wings flaring out briefly, gone just as fast.

Gabriel laughs, pure childlike delight, and nods his head, urging Castiel on.

Shooting up into the sky to gain height, Castiel tucks his semi corporeal wings against his body, streaking down towards the lake like a shooting star. Just before he hits the water, Castiel spreads his wings out with a forceful flap, once again tormenting Dean with the quick appearance of solid feathers at the edges of his wings, displacing the water and sending tall waves throughout the whole lake. Frustrated by the glimpses he had that were mere blinks — _hints_ — of something greater, Dean scowls. But it only adds to his annoyance when Dean finds he simply cannot rip his gaze away from Castiel.

Wings glowing in the sunshine, the perfect picture of how humans imagined and depicted angels, Gabriel imitates Castiel's dive, tucking himself into a roll to scoop a wing through the lake at the end. Water droplets scatter up into the air, creating a vivid rainbow. Gabriel, in an excellent demonstration of his age, tosses water at Castiel, flying out of reach before Castiel could retaliate. An impromptu water battle begins between the two holy Angels of The Lord, darting around after each other and alternating between dipping wings and hands into the lake. Eventually, Gabriel tires of the game, following Castiel down into the depths of the lake, probably to watch the fish or something equally interesting.

“Wonder what Gabriel's doing here,” Sam muses in the silence.

Dean shrugs a shoulder. “Who knows.”

A gust of wind blows at the Winchester brothers from behind them. They turn together; Gabriel stands on the dock, casually shaking out his wings and chewing on a chocolate bar, showering Sam and Dean with lake water. Gabriel shoots a sly wink at Sam, leaving his wings relaxed and open instead of folding them behind his back.

Castiel appears next to Dean on the dock, water dripping down his bare shoulders. He mirrors the Winchesters, sitting down on the warm wood.

“Cassie’s shy about his wings,” Gabriel teases, proudly ruffling his golden feathers.

“They aren’t beautiful like yours,” Castiel mutters, looking out at the still water.

Gabriel scoffs, his next bite of chocolate more aggressive than the last. “Lying is a sin, you know?”

Castiel doesn’t reply, dipping his feet into the lake.

“They might not be the brightest white anymore,” Gabriel continues, tossing a chocolate bar into Castiel’s lap, “but they aren’t _ugly.”_

“Hey, you never give us candy,” Dean faux complains, obviously attempting to switch the topic.

Picking up the chocolate from his lap, Castiel offers it to Dean; Dean waves it aside with a sigh.

Sam, however, is intrigued. “You had white wings? What happened to them?”

“Hell.”

“Don’t be shy, dear brother,” Gabriel coos, curling a wing around Castiel, “they’re still the most beautiful things these monkeys will ever see. Besides mine, of course.”

Dean sees a muscle jump in Castiel’s jaw. “Hey—”

There is a shift of feathers, and Gabriel’s golden wing is shoved aside as wings dark as the night unfurl from between Castiel’s shoulder blades. Dean’s words die in his throat; the only sound that escapes him is a high, choked gasp.

Gabriel snickers, chewing the last of his chocolate. “I think you broke Dean-o.”

“I will smite you, Gabriel.”

“Little bro, you may have six wings, but need I remind you who I am?”

Castiel frowns darkly, wings ruffling with his displeasure.

“S-six wings,” Dean manages to squeak.

“Yup.” Gabriel pops a lollipop into his mouth, words slightly slurred. “Your dear angel is a seraph, some—  _how!”_

Dean and Castiel turn to raise eyebrows at Gabriel. The archangel’s lollipop hangs limp in his mouth, which is parted in a shocked _o._ Sam quickly raises his hands into the air, expression guilty.

“What just—” Dean starts.

“You—” Gabriel turns on Sam, voice low. “You _human,_ you dare?”

Sam’s eyes widen in alarm, subtly leaning away.

“You. _Touched my wings,”_ Gabriel growls, feathers fluffing up like hackles.

“Gabriel,” Castiel warns, his own neatly folded wings reacting to Gabriel’s emotions.

Dean palms his gun.

Golden wings slide further open, casting a threatening shadow over Sam. Dean knows his gun wouldn't do anything beyond irritate the archangel, but he prepares himself to shoot all the same.

“Do it again,” Gabriel demands, bumping a wing against Sam's shoulder.

Stunned, Sam obediently slides a hand down the large feathers, Dean still defensively clutching his gun in silence as Gabriel hums happily and plops himself down next to Sam, twirling the lollipop in his mouth.

“Uh. Just like that, we're cool? Isn't, I don't know, _molesting an angel’s wings_ a grave sin or something? You let anyone touch your feathers?”

“If it were anyone besides your brother, they would be dead.” Castiel squints at Gabriel, gaze thoughtful and appraising. “We would not manifest our wings for those we do not wish to reveal them to.”

“A little higher.”

Without skipping a beat, Sam moves his hands up Gabriel's wing, threading his fingers through even softer, shorter feathers.

“Mm,” Gabriel sighs.

“What does that even mean,” Dean questions.

“It means I'm attached, Dean-o.”

“Oh hell no you son of a—”

“Dean.” Castiel reaches up and grabs Dean's wrist, stopping him from charging at Gabriel.

Lounging on the dock beside Sam with his wings spread out, Gabriel looks at up Dean, pupils ringed with solid gold. He bites through his lollipop with a _crack,_ daring Dean to make a move.

“Having an archangel on our side is a good thing, Dean.”

“I'm always on your side, Sasquatch,” Gabriel purrs, eyes dimming to their normal whiskey colour. “I'll even tolerate your annoying brother.”

“Just don't hurt Dean. Or Cas.”

“Aw. Where's the fun in that?”

“Gabe, I swear to—”

Gabriel yelps, Sam having tugged a little at the Trickster’s wings in his frustration. “Okay, okay, you got it. Ouch.”

Dean growls, angry and frustrated, but Gabriel is perfectly docile, head tilted back to watch the white fluffy clouds drift across the sky while Sam thoroughly explores the golden feathers with his fingers. He can't do anything about it now; plus, having one extra angel guarding Sam from danger didn't seem too terrible of a deal. _But why him, of all people?_ There's a gentle pull at his arm, and Dean is painfully aware of warm, careful fingers still circling his wrist.

Huffing a defeated breath, Dean sits with his back to the lake, keeping an eye on his brother. Castiel shifts to sit next to to him, lightly squeezing Dean's wrist, as if Dean was a rabid dog that would take off the instant Castiel releases him. Perhaps he would, actually. Dean didn't mind laying a good one on the archangel — in fact, he very much enjoyed the idea. In a gesture that suggested mind reading powers — wait don't angels actually have that — Castiel releases Dean just as he decides to tip onto his back, pressing his bare skin to the wood. He's guilty of expecting Castiel to hold on instead of let go, but he'd partly switched position in hopes of breaking the contact.

And Dean's confused. What does he want? One second he's welcoming the startling proximity that Castiel constantly maintained, and the next he's stepping away, overwhelmed by the feeling. One second he's relishing in the way Castiel looked at him like Dean is his whole world, and the next he's infuriated by the idea, refusing to even glance in the angel's direction. Castiel, a holy being from Heaven, pure and powerful, would give up his life for Dean's like he was buying something at the store and his own existence was the currency.

Dean hates it, because why him? Out of all the other people on the planet, this idiotic angel had taken a glance at Dean Winchester, a fragile human man doomed to Hell, and declared _This is the one. He's the one I'll die for._ A man that had far more issues than could be named, a man who ran around trying to save people because he couldn't save himself, a man who tries his best and rarely ever succeeds, a man who is so broken and tired that he could fall apart any second of the day. Dean loves that such a being — from _Heaven,_ of all places — could choose him, show him that even someone like him is worthy of something, worthy of being saved, worthy of being loved, worthy of being alive. But Dean hates it, because he doesn't deserve it. Any of it. He hates himself, because Dean's tainted an innocent angel, made him fall in every way, made him lose his family, his home, his _life;_ all of it, wasted on _Dean,_ a damned man walking the Earth.

“Oh my _father,_ you think too loud!” Gabriel suddenly exclaims, startling everyone. “Is there anything swimming around in that noggin of yours? You moronic Winchesters are always whining. If another one bites the dust, it ain't your problem, they _chose_ it. And please, Cassie's a favourite, he wouldn't kick the bucket so easily. Now shut up and quit _thinking_ before I decide to put you out of your misery.”

“You angels can't stop being so nosy, can you,” Dean snarls, anger igniting easily with the gasoline of his hate for himself.

“Oh, I would _love_ to leave you wallowing in your self loathing, trust me.”

Dean follows Gabriel's gaze to Castiel, who is looking back at Dean with hurt bewilderment. _I don't understand. Did I not show you that good things do happen? Why do you insist on not seeing your own worth? What have I done wrong? You do deserve to be saved, Dean._

“Ah. You… You heard it all, too?” _Right, proximity makes it easier for angels to hear thoughts. Crappy move, Dean._

“Dean.”

Dean keeps his eyes on a cloud that looks vaguely like a rabbit, studiously avoiding Castiel. Something brushes hesitantly against his arm and shoulder, tickling the bare skin. Absently, Dean taps it with the back of his hand, with hopes that it — whatever it was — would get the hint and withdraw. Softer than silk, it nudges his hand, and Dean is curious enough to turn his palm toward it. He strokes his fingers down long primary feathers, not fully comprehending what he was feeling until it fans across his lap, and Dean's forced to look down at the _wing_ resting on his legs.

The delicate underside of the wing is facing the sky, beautiful glossy black feathers laying straight and uniform, so dark it was nearly an inky shadow pooled on Dean's legs. It reminds Dean of a raven’s wings but upscaled multiple times, shimmering with blue that reflected the exact colour of Castiel's eyes, mossy greens, and deep royal purples when the sunlight hit the feathers a specific way. Although something in him yelled _This is not ideal, laying hands on something so glorious and fragile,_ something in Dean screamed _Touch! You've been invited, this is your only chance! You need to!_ even louder. He can feel Castiel watching as he slowly lowers his hand down, giving the angel plenty of time to rebuke him. Castiel does no such thing, and Dean tenderly slides his fingers along the edge of one strong feather with awe and disbelief so strong, he felt like he was in a trance.

Hypnotized by the sheer beauty and power beneath his fingertips, Dean traces the vane of one single feather, over and over again. Now, he understands exactly why Sam had been so eager to continue touching Gabriel's wings. He was finally satisfying something he'd wanted — no, stronger than that, _needed_ — his whole life, but he hadn't known what it had been until now. Like an addiction. Of sensation. Dean wanted to dig his fingers into these wonderful feathers, to press his face to them, to feel them all over him. He wanted to drown in them, feel them fill his lungs, choke on the velvety barbs.

“I don't think that would be very ideal,” Castiel comments, eyebrows furrowed with innocent confusion.

“Stop that,” Dean hisses, flushing.

“Stop what?”

 _“That—_ It— Your stupid angel mojo!”

“Speaking of,” Sam interrupts, “did you mojo us this morning?”

Castiel frowns, tipping his head to one side in his usual _I don't understand_ gesture, but Dean knows Castiel very well. He's learned to read Castiel's every microexpression, every emotion that surfaces briefly in his eyes. So although Castiel looks as puzzled as he mostly is around the Winchesters, Dean knows he's trying to hide something. But Dean doesn't comment, because he has never felt so well rested in his whole entire life and he suspects that Sam is feeling it too — the lightness in his limbs like gravity had decreased by half, the energy running through him like something even better than the most potent caffeine, his mind clear and not sluggish with exhaustion.

Instead, Dean asks, “What do you mean this morning? Did he wake you up?”

“You don't…” Sam seems to realize something, glancing at Castiel, trying to convey a message with his eyes.

Castiel blinks blankly back.

 _Oh,_ Sam's expression reads for a second, before he raises his eyebrows in an exaggerated _I don't know_ and shrugs. “Nevermind.”

Dean is suspicious, because _Sammy's being weird,_ but Sam constantly does weird things and Dean can't read minds, so he lets the topic slide.

“Hey, is anyone else hungry?”

“Gabriel, you do not require human sustenance,” Castiel deadpans.

Gabriel rolls his eyes.

“I am.” Sam raises his hand like he's still in school, and Dean sighs, because _of course Sam would do something like that._

“I was going to get breakfast until _someone tackled me into the lake.”_

Sam grins sheepishly, brushing a curl of his drying hair behind his ear. “It's probably going to have to be lunch now,” he laughs, looking up at the afternoon sun glowing in the clear blue sky.

“I've got the food covered,” Gabriel chirps, hopping to his feet and dusting off his pants. “There's pie, consider it my peace offering, Dean-o.”

Grabbing his damp clothes and hurriedly shoving his boots on, Sam eagerly follows Gabriel back to the cabin, one of Gabriel's wings pressing protectively against Sam's back.

Although he was considerably interested in Gabriel's pie offering, Dean doesn’t budge. He doesn’t want this moment to end. Idly sitting around under the hot sun, Sam safe and alive, no looming threat of anything normal people would write horror stories about, no calls about a new weird death or disappearance, Dean is... If he dared to give it such a name, Dean is finally _content._ It’s small, insignificant, overshadowed by the pain and regret and loss, but it’s shining with a sort of longing, a sort of hope. And Dean’s afraid, if he moves away from this lake, that he’d leave behind his laughter, his only chance at being able to spend time with his brother that doesn’t involve a case, a killer, a trick, or death. No one’s dead, no one’s dying, no one’s cursed. Everyone is present and real and Dean just wants to gather it all up and keep it protected in a safe. Hell, he’d even let Gabriel stay with them if that was the only condition to keeping this moment.

“Dean, we should go. You haven’t eaten anything since last night.”

Furiously blinking away the moisture in his eyes, Dean sniffs aggressively, voice rough when he speaks. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. Okay.”

Together, they trudge back to the cabin. Castiel, more reserved and shy compared to his brother, curves his wing behind Dean, hovering it just out of reach. Dean’s hand accidentally bumps Castiel’s; after that, Castiel walks closer to Dean, their arms and shoulders brushing occasionally, soft feathers skimming against Dean’s other shoulder.

“We’ll be back.”


End file.
